


Conquests

by lemonsharks



Series: Wildcards [2]
Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Edgeplay, F/M, Femdom, Hair-pulling, Light Dom/sub, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay, Polyamory, Purple Hawke, background hawke/isabela, come appreciation, snarky inquisitor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 10:29:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7218880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemonsharks/pseuds/lemonsharks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke promised Isabela a conquest the next time they meet, and the Inquisitor is a <em>very</em> good mark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conquests

One day a week, Simeon Trevelyan takes a table at the Herald’s Rest and hears complaints. 

He hates petty court--has since he was fourteen at his father’s elbow, listening to the little woes quarrels of Ostwick. _Yes,_ he’d ask when they were done and headed home _, but what’s at stake?_ Little. Reputation. The feeling of the people. No reason he has to hear any of _that_ from the stiff-backed throne of flame in the great hall.

So he takes a table at the Herald’s Rest on Thursdays and settles quarrels with an ale in his hand, while Scout Harding leads a reel and the bard Maryden sings of their victory in Orlais. Hawke joins him, afterward, as she has every other night he’s come out to offer arbitration. 

“A real Inquisitor of the people,” she says, “Ready to tell anyone he’s acting like a stupid lout at a moment’s notice.”

“That’s me,” Simeon replies, and orders a plate of bread and apples with honey and a walnut paste he likes. 

Hawke doesn’t ask before she dives into the food herself, but this has become so ordinary that he always has them bring enough for two. Three, if he’s just back from the wilds with barely enough time to wash away the dirt of the world. Hawke shreds an apple slice with her fingers. She taps her feet beneath the table, sometimes bumping her knee on the underside of the tabletop. 

They aren’t ready for a demon army yet, but will be soon, and she’s antsy. 

“Corypheus was _dead_ ,” she says at last. “He _was_. I--” 

Hawke stops. 

“Don’t know how it is that he’s not?”

“I should have joined the Inquisition sooner.”

“You had a city to keep from falling apart.”

“What’s one city when the world’s at stake?” She sighs. Then smiles, showing teeth. “What’s the world when all you care for is one city--that’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

It’s a conversation they’ve had before. Simeon takes his left hand in his right and touches the Anchor with his thumb. It’s quiet tonight, neither painful nor gone to pins and needles. Hawke watches him from her place. She licks tart apple juice from her slim fingers and calls a crackle of lightning to the air around them, which makes the hair around her face form a kind of halo. 

“I was thinking I almost wish I’d been in Kirkwall instead of Ostwick,” he says instead. I might have escaped the Gallows--you laugh _now_ \--and joined your band of misfits. I would have liked to have known you without the weight of a world gone to shit on your conscience.”

“I had a smarter mouth.”

“I find that difficult to believe.”

“I was quicker to joke and quicker to give offense--slower to take it.”

“That’s easier to swallow.”

Hawke smirks and rolls her eyes. “I’ve had word from Isabela.”

“Have you, now?”

“She wants to help the Inquisition. Something about giving dragon-hunting a try, now that we seem to have an infestation of them on our hands.” 

He knows exactly the kind of woman who can send news where she wants it and have it not discovered by outsiders _until_ she wants that done; Leliana is that kind of woman. This admiral of Hawke’s, for all she sails with a letter of marque that has no viscountess behind it, seems exactly that kind of woman. 

And Hawke trusts her. Varric trusts Hawke. Simeon trusts Varric, for all that it makes Cassandra tell him exactly how daft he can be, given the opportunity. His turn to sigh, now, that the Seeker has barely lifted an eyelash at him, but these things are what they shall be. Times are, he thinks of giving up. Times are, he thinks Hawke might be flirting with him despite her attachment to the pirate queen.

“And she has _some_ dragon-hunting experience, I take it?”

Hawke laughs, now, long and high. It’s a lovely sound, coming from a lovely woman. 

“Let me tell you about the Bone Pit,” she says, and calls for a drink. 

The story is a long one, winding its way through seven years and infestations of dragons and giant spiders and varterral. She speaks of Isabela with a wistfulness in her voice, a lonely longing, and of the large vermin with a kind of mirth he’s rarely seen from her. 

_Is this Hawke herself_? he wonders, _Is this her manner without guilt enough to crack diamond?_

She tells of the high dragon with gestures and mime accompanying her words, the quick cadence of a storyteller who knows she has her audience--and they’ve grown an audience. A handful of the Chargers have dragged chairs ‘round Simeon’s table, and another handful of other patrons standing or sitting nearby. Bull himself leans against the stairs, listening rapt while Hawke goes into exceptionally gorey detail. 

“--Knives right into her braincase,” she says, “All four of us covered in blood and viscera--disgusting, after the fact, but thrilling at the time--that’s how she went down.”

Hawke leans back, and takes a breath, surveying her gathered crowd. She smirks at Simeon as if to ask, _could you do any better_? 

He could not, though he’s been nose-to-nose with a Ferelden Frostback, backed her into glyphs of Vivienne’s ice and hoped the flame-tonics did their job as well as he needed them to. The best he could say for _that_ dragon is how happy it made him seeing it _gone_. 

The crowd thins as the hour grows late. Even the Iron Bull retires to his quarters with a firm clap on Hawke’s shoulder and the invitation to kill dragons with _him_ any time. 

“You,” Simeon says, “looked more alive tonight than I’ve ever seen you. You must care for your pirate a great deal.”

“I do,” Hawke says, “And I’ve promised her a conquest of my own, before we meet next.” 

“You have.” He swallows--this is not what he’d expected.

“And you are one hell of a conquest.” 

 

Hawke trails him to his quarters, a few yards behind, as if she’s stalking prey. He’s halfway up the stairs when she reaches him again, with a hand pressed flat to the small of his back. 

“Do you know what I thought when I first saw you?” she says.

He has no idea, and turns with a shrug. 

“ _Damn_.”

She steps up to him, warm in his space, the air crackling with magic all around her. This woman who brought peace on tenterhooks to her city. He doesn’t know Kirkwall, has been there only briefly to visit the Emporium and then back home again, and even he can tell it’s a wild place. That there’s something in the sludge running through its veins that makes it wild. Corrupt. Uncivilized. A day and a night there and he knows exactly why Varric loves the place so. 

But Kirkwall is very far off, and Hawke backs him up the stairs, into his quarters, murmuring as she goes. How long it’s been for her, how she misses touch, misses _kissing_ and _hands_ and strong arms hoisting her up and back against the wall. 

She isn’t Cassandra, but Cassandra doesn’t seem to know he exists. Oh, she’ll give that small, sly smile and say something barbed in response to his flirtation, but she isn’t _here_ , unbuttoning his vest. 

Simeon lets the white silk brocade fall to the floor and takes Hawke’s face in both of his hands. She stills, and makes a contented sound.“I’m not well-versed in women--no one wants to sire a child in the Circle, after all--you’ll need to instruct me.”

Hawke shivers, and stands on tiptoe to kiss his neck. “Oh, Isabela will _love_ you.” She tugs his shirt free of his trousers. “Pick me up. Hold me back against the wall, and kiss me until I can’t breathe. We’ll start easy, hm?”

Compact and muscled, Hawke wraps her thighs around his waist and locks her ankles behind him when he obeys. She’s still in light armor, the leathers supple but awkward between them, and her lips taste of salt and flesh. 

He swipes his tongue along the seam of them and leans forward, pressing into her, one foot on the next stair up and the other on the landing. Kissing, he can do. Kissing, he remembers, is not so very different with a woman as with a man. He pulls back and lays a peck at the corner of her mouth, kisses a line in small touches all along her full bottom lip. 

Hawke whines. It’s a good sound. Simeon takes the lip between his and sucks, releases and presses the seam of her mouth open with his tongue. 

She flattens her tongue beneath his, darts in and out of his mouth, fixes her hands in his short hair and _pulls_. He wishes it were longer, give her something better to hold onto. Instead he backs from the wall and ascends the last few steps, still placing his every attention on her lovely, smart mouth. 

At the top of the stairs he hoists her up into deposits her on the sofa, overstuffed and more comfortable than any of the furnishings at the Ostwick Circle tower. He unbuckles the strap he’s fairly certain holds her pauldron in place, dives in again, with a dry, chaste kiss that turns to lapping heat. 

The armor clatters to the floor and Hawke pulls back, slipping free of her leathers.

“Wait,” she says, panting. “Have you read the book?”

“The book?”

His mind is scattered. Her nipples are peaked beneath her shirt, and he longs to kiss them, too. 

“The _Tale of the Champion_. I don’t fuck anyone who’s read the book.”

Simeon shakes his head--he had intended to, but never had the time. All he knows of Hawke he’s heard from Varric, and suddenly he’s glad of it.

“Maker bless you,” she says, and rips her shirt off over her head. Her things lie in a heap over the sofa. 

“Any requests?” he says. 

“Quit _stalling_.” She toes off her boots, extracts her feet from her stockings and shimmies out of her soft breeches. Her smallclothes go with them to the floor. “You see this?” she says, tracing a line up her up her slit with one finger, then tangling her hand in the thatch of hair at the apex of her thighs. “You work for this--”

His prick strains against his trousers. 

“--Foot to thigh until I’m soaking for you, and then I’ll have your mouth on me.”

“And then?” 

“I’ll decide when you get there.” 

Simeon drapes one of her legs over his shoulder and takes the other in his hands. He presses his thumbs into the arch of her foot, and Hawke groans for him, Another good sound--he tries not to think of her cunt, already parted and glistening wet, and kisses her ankle instead. 

Fingers move up her calves, digging into flesh stiff and sore from hiking all over the Western Approach and back. Simeon kisses the outside of her knee and then the inside, and then he sucks open-mouthed on the tender flesh there, still massaging her calf, until he draws a bruise to the surface of her skin. 

Here she slips her fingers upon herself and bucks up into her own hand, and he has to stop and watch. She parts her lips with practiced fingers, moves them first down to gather her own slick fluid and then up again, over the insides of the lips and around the small bundle of flesh straining upward at her center. 

“There’s a whole thigh you’re ignoring,” she says, then flicks at the nub with her fingertips, pressing down as she does. Her breath falters, and she repeats the motion. She raises her hips to meet her hand each time, and Simeon watches, transfixed, as she brings herself to climax. 

“You’re quite instructive,” he says, squeezing his thighs together for a bit of friction on his prick. 

There’s a coil inside him, bright with longing, with the promise of eventual release--a tightness in his chest and belly that he tamps down. _He_ can wait. He’s waited many, many times, parted from a lover at the sound of armored steps, unfulfilled. 

Simeon _knows_ waiting, _knows_ stealth, _knows_ the whispered, _hush, stop, I think I hear someone_. All this _privacy_ is new.

“And _you_ aren’t doing as you’re told,” Hawke replies. “You’ve seen how quiet I can be. Make me scream for you.” 

He turns to her other thigh and kisses it, long and wet and creeping to the seam where her legs part. She has a lovely cunt, swollen pink on the insides of the lips. He could touch her, kiss her there right now, but he doesn’t, skips right over, moves up to her belly instead. 

Hawke bucks her hips, and grabs one of his hands, drags it up to her breast. He grins against her navel, dips his tongue inside and soaks in the reward of a little gasp, while he obliges with his hands. 

She’s soft and small and full of fire, and Simeon kneads her and rolls her taut red nipple beneath his palm, returns to it with his fingers, twisting and squeezing. Hawke strains against him and fumbles for his other hand, looking surely to drag it up to the breast he’s ignored. 

Instead he dodges her, slips his fingers deep inside her cunt and curls them upward in a steady rhythm, again and again, while he attends to her clit with a circling thumb. 

“You asked me,” he moves his mouth to her hip and bites, marks the flesh with his teeth, “To make you scream. _Do_ you even scream?” 

“When Isabela tells me to.”

She begins to tighten around him, and he eases off with his hand, still squeezing her breast in a mismatched pattern. He’s good with hands, and his mouth, good with his prick up a lover’s arse, good with hurrying a climax along before being caught. 

They’ve all the time in the world and no one to see or hear them with stout walls and doors locked and spelled for silence. 

Simeon leaves her empty and kneels before her, spread wide on his sofa with twitching hips and bruises he’s left at her behest. 

“She sounds remarkable,” he says, “Your pirate queen.”

“Privateer,” she murmurs, “All legal, now, unless--” 

He puts his mouth to her cunt, finally, tasting the salt and musk of her. 

“--Unless the next viscount--”

Simeon flattens his tongue against her clit and drags it up and over and down again in slow waves. He takes his hand from her breast and she whimpers, but he needs that hand on him _self_ if he’s going to keep his concentration. There’s no straining for the sound of other apprentices bringing themselves off, shifting blankets and caught breath and rutting against the mattress. He wraps his hand around his prick through his trousers and squeezes in waves up his length, laps and slides his tongue over the sides of her lips and up against her clit again.

“--rescinds, _fuck_ \--!”

Hawke makes a pained sound in the back of her throat, desperate and needy and it makes him buck against his own hand, fully willing to come here, now, inside his clothes. She drags him up by the hair and clambers over him so that he’s sitting on the sofa now. Hawke kisses him hard and long with teeth that clack against his, tongue that licks all of her wetness from his mouth and chin.

She works the ties of his trousers with shaking hands, pushes them and his smalls just far enough down to get his prick out, and sheathes him with her body and a long groan. 

“I’ve _missed_ cocks,” she says, moving up and back, and he won’t last, not like this, not with Hawke _this_ tight around him. 

He takes his fingers to her clit and circles, pinches, turns his mouth to the breast he’d ignored and sucks, tongues the nipple erect. Hawke _warbles_ , the sound in her throat like a bird’s call and their hips beating a staccato rhythm against one another. 

Then she seizes, the moan high and long and echoing through his chamber. The feel of her around his prick is too much, he _can’t_ hold off, though he manages a handful of seconds, sense returning to him at the very end. He slips out of her on her next upward pull, catches his prick in his hand and spills against her belly and over his clothes, not caring that he’s likely ruined them. 

Breath comes back to him slowly. Hawke moves, sprawling bare and perfect beside him, hair torn down he doesn’t remember when, and plastered in tendrils to her face with sweat. 

“Good conquest?” he asks, laying his hand across her cunt once more and drawing gentle circles around her swollen clit with his fingertip. 

Hawke shudders, and he grins. 

“You’re good enough, for a man so averse to following directions.”

Simeon laughs. “Really? Because you asked for a scream and you got one.”

“Hardly,” she says, elbowing him in the ribs. “I’m much _shriekier_ than I was today. We should do this again, you know. Until you get it right.”

“Shriekier?”

“Mm-hm. Isabela would not be impressed.”

“ _Isabela_ should come lend a hand, if she’s so very set that I’m not pleasing you correctly.”

Hawke murmurs something unintelligible, and then clears her throat. She traces a line through his come on her belly with a wicked grin. Simeon shrugs out of his shirt at last and hands the garment to her to start cleaning up. 

“Stay for an hour, and I’ll show you screaming.”

“If you’ve a pen and ink, I’ll write to the Admiral now.”


End file.
